


Cookies With A Smie

by Aeromance



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Refined sugar ridiculousness, Tesco AU, baking porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeromance/pseuds/Aeromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis leans in and plucks at Harry’s damp shirt before letting it plop back into place. “Why are you two wet?” He points at Harry and Zayn. “And why are you eating cookies?”</p><p>“Why not?” Niall retorts.</p><p>“Fair point.”</p><p>Zayn interjects. “Better question – why aren’t you in aisle seven? I was sure you were involved in some way.”</p><p>Harry opens his mouth and then pauses before turning to Zayn. “Y’know, I did, too! When Nick told me, I asked him ‘what has Louis done now?’”</p><p>“I hate Nick.” Louis mutters pointlessly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cookies With A Smie

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Ninja baker [pause] Disgruntled holiday employee [pause] Cookie-shaming [pause] THERE. 
> 
> For Vanessa - keep drinking your tea and enlightening the world. I positively adore you and I'm sorry this is late and I'm sorry there is no ninja baking (yet). 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own them nor do I own their likeness. Someone owns it and is running it to shit...

xxx

Liam is tossing a can from hand to hand as he scans up and down aisle seven. There used to be a place for the heart-healthy low-sodium, vegan chicken broth, he knows it. As he bends over to inspect the lower shelves, Liam feels a solid thud on his bum.

He sighs and swats a hand back without landing a target. "Very funny, Lou."

No snide comeback is uttered, which is strange. Liam looks to his right and realizes no one is even behind him. He stands up and turns right slowly until his forms a full circle. The only other person on the aisle is an elderly woman with tight, white curls pushing a trolley further down the aisle.

With a shrug, he crouches down to start scanning the lower shelves again. Liam’s eyes start to glaze over as he reads through the lines of soups. Liam bites his bottom lip and hums. Last he checked Louis was not a ninja but there is no one else who likes to tease Liam like that, especially at work. He realizes with a start that he has been nodding off and repeating “Camp-bell, camp-bell, camp-bell,” over and over in his head with no understanding or care for the words or brands. Liam shakes his head and rubs at his eyes with a hand. He has got to stop agreeing to go with the lads the night before school and work. He can feel his mother’s surmounting disappointment every time he stays out and smokes when he should be studying.

Another thud hits his backside, this time more of a glancing blow on his lower back. “Seriously, Louis! Knock it off.” Liam stands and turns to his left as he raises his voice. Politeness be damned, this is starting to get annoying. Liam is faced with an empty aisle again and slowly blinks. Things are not making sense and Liam looks to the problematic can of soup in his hand for answers. What exactly is in vegan chicken broth, if not chicken? Aren't vegans supposed to be very against chicken? What do vegans even-

A loud crash from behind him makes Liam jump and flip in place. 

A trolley careens around the corner of the aisle, dragging behind it the woman with white curls. Liam jumps back and plasters himself against canned vegetables on the opposite side of the aisle to avoid being trampled. As she flies by, glaring at him, he notices three things in rapid succession: she seems to be standing on the bar under the trolley with no regard to steering or stopping, she is possibly wearing a dressing gown (like, from a hospital), and the vegan chicken broth is on the third shelf from the top towards the right, where it has always been.

Today is going to be interesting.

>>>>>

“Oh! Oatmeal with raisins this time, Mr. Johnson? A daring choice, if I do say so myself!” Harry slides the last box of cereal into a tightly packed bag and starts to double bag it as he turns back to the elderly gentleman in line with a smile.

Mr. Johnson laughs and turns to his left, looking down. “You know me, Harry. I like ‘em plain. But Angela likes it a bit sweeter than I do. And she has full run of the ship while mum and da are away.”

A small delighted giggle emits from somewhere behind the conveyor belt and out of Harry’s vision. He very nearly mirrors the giggle and leans over to get a look at a small, blonde-haired angel looking up reverently at Mr. Johnson. “Oooh, who do we have here?” Harry sticks out his hand and beams. “My name is Harry. What’s yours?”

The girl turns to Harry and doesn't bat an eye as she meets him halfway and manages a firm grip despite only being able to hold three of his fingers. “I’m Angela.” She flashes a smile that is missing a tooth and Harry melts a little.

Mr. Johnson clears his throat a little. “She’s my granddaughter. She’s with me while her parents are gone for holiday.”

Harry chuckles. “Mr. Johnson, you dog! You never told me you were hiding adorable babies from me.” Harry realizes he has never seen a Mrs. Johnson and that makes him a bit sad but the little girl clearly takes up all the space in his heart that he has to give.

Angela grabs onto the trolley edge with on hand and the edge of the counter with the other to boost herself up. “Scuse me. I’m six, thank you much.”

Harry claps his hand in glee. “You certainly are!” He leans in. “Well, Miss Angela, you do look like an angel. Looks like your mum and dad picked the perfect name!” Harry pointedly ignores exaggerated sighs and throat-clearing from the few people queuing up behind Mr. Johnson and the little angel. His mother raised him right and there’s a thing called customer service. He walks around the register to place the last few bags into Mr. Johnson’s trolley and asks, as always, “Would you like any help out today, Mr. Johnson?”

“Oh, none of that, Harry. We can manage.” Mr. Johnson says while still smiling down at his granddaughter. Harry can empathize. He wants twelve.

As Mr. Johnson leans down to write out a cheque. Harry leans over the counter and whispers conspiratorially to Angela. “Do you want a surprise, Miss Angela?”

Angela brushes her hair over her ear and “hmm”s as she looks up, as if she is seriously considering the positive and negative consequences of accepting a surprise from a complete stranger. Her head starts to tilt back and forth as she taps her foot. Harry can see the thoughts pitter-patter back and forth like a pong ball. Maybe it’s a bomb. But maybe it’s candy! What if it’s chores? Or homework? OR A PONY!

There is a light in her eyes and Harry is grabbing a purple star sticker from behind the counter before she says a word. “Yes, Mister Harry, I would like a surprise.”

Harry grabs her small hand and places the star on the back of her hand. Immediately, she yanks away her hand and inspects the star with narrowed eyes. Harry chews on his lip as he nervously waits for her assessment of the surprise. He’s never been wrong before with sticker choice but there is a first for everything, maybe even this.

Finally, Angela looks at him and twists her hand so the star is facing him. “How did you know that my favorite color is purple?” Her intense stare is bordering on a glare and Harry has to laugh in relief.

“All the best people have that favorite color, love!” He takes the cheque from Mr. Johnson and starts punching numbers into his register. Score number 542 for Harry Styles, sticker expert. He wraps the receipt and coupons together with a neat fold and hands them off. “Now be sure to visit me again before you leave, Angela. I’ll have another sticker for you!”  
Mr. Johnson smiles and thanks Harry before ushering Angela and the trolley away. Angela obediently follows her grandfather but sends appraising views over her shoulder every few seconds, as if she still can’t believe Harry is real. It sends a pleasant thrum through Harry’s chest. He’s going to be the best dad ever, pending a future partner willing to have fourteen kids, six pets, and a gas efficient vehicle.

Harry turns to the next customer and smiles as brightly as he can. Maybe they’ll forgive him for taking a little extra time on Mr. Johnson and co. once they get a little bit of TLC themselves. Everyone needs it.

Someone jerks his arm back and Harry turns to see Nick behind him breathing heavily with sweat beaded along his hairline. Nick is so pretty when he looks flustered. Harry grins at him and leans in. “What did Louis do this time?” Harry asks in a half-joking way, because, really, it’s Louis. If there is trouble in the store – it’s something to do with him.  
Nick starts whispering furiously and Harry’s smile slides away.

As Nick scampers off, Harry turns to the next customer with twisted apologetic grimace. “Sorry, but this line is closed. Emergency business in the back. I’m sure Perrie will be able to help you over in line 4.” Without waiting for an argument, Harry flips off his light and places his “CLOSED” sign right onto the scanner bar. He returns Perrie’s two-fingers salute with a dismissing wave as he grabs the phone by his register and dials into the intercom. “Later,” he mouths at her as it rings in.

“Attention, Tesco Staff. We need direction for an immediate clean up.”

Today is going to be exciting.

>>>>

Zayn is staring down at the speckled linoleum and weakly rotating the mop in place. He hates cleaning. He knows it. The manager knows it. His mother has certainly known it for years. This begs the question: why is he stuck cleaning the entire floor during one of the busiest times in the store? Someone clearly has it out for him.

The problem with cleaning something is the inherent faith that there is a state of cleanliness that can possibly be reached. Zayn isn't so sure about this assumption. He has no clue about when this place was built (it was in the training, Liam probably knows), but whenever it was constructed, Zayn is positive it was built with dirt and grime ingrained to the very core. He imagines the design planning committee:

_  
“Oh, this one is very nice! They say that red and yellows promote hunger and excessive buying! That’s why McDonalds is doing so well right now!”_

_“Yes, that is one of our most popular models for any business selling food products.”_

_“Ah, but how much are we talking?”_

_“Oh, not much, it’ll make itself back in profits within the year, I assure you!”_

_“How. Much.”_

_“Well, erm, twenty-four per tile.”_

_“Sir, unless a single tile covers the entirety of Britain, you’re out of your mind!”_

_“We do have more – ah – economic options for the budget conscious. I can show you the-“_

_“What is the cheapest? That one right there, it looks awful. How much?”_

_“Oh, that one? Well, that’s actually an older brand that we no longer supply. It’s rather-“_

_“Price, damn it! Give me a number!”_

_“Oh, 99 pence a tile. Actually, everything left of this type has been infested by mold and dirt and a sick mutation of bed bugs and head lice that eat away at people’s brains. We’ll give it to you, free of charge, if you promise to sign this non-disclosure waiver and never let the public know of any homosexual inclinations you may have.”_

_“Perfect! Wait, what?”  
_

Metal jams into his hip, jolting Zayn out of his fantasy, and he goes flying face first into his mop bucket. Sometime between throwing his arms out to do damage control and his arm hitting the bottom rim of the bucket, causing it to swing over and douse him in dirty, soapy water, Zayn has a life-flashing-before-his-eyes moment. He recalls walking in today to see a big sign posted in the employee break room, reading violently in ridiculously oversized red, bold, underlined font: “NO SWEARING ON STAGE!!!”

“Shit- no, shoot. Fuck. Damn it. Darn!”

Zayn tries to push himself up to look to his right hoping to identify the poor customer that just ruined his day and, inevitably, theirs. An elderly woman is much farther down the aisle, speeding along with wheels screeching, like she’s about to miss out on a sale of off-colored fabric swatches. As Zayn considers chasing her down to question about what features she could identify in his assailant, his hands lose traction on the floor and he flops to floor again, coming to rest in the epitome of this store’s filth.

There’s no way to get lower and Zayn can still hear poorly contained laughter around him so he allows himself a minute. He’d only need one question: were they blonde and Irish, curly haired and cute, girly hair and with a big butt, or short-haired, earnest looking, and perfect all around? What is he thinking? Liam would never do this. Actually, he doesn’t need to question anyone. He knows it was Louis.

Zayn pushes himself up again and supports himself with one knee. He glares at one customer who has the audacity to stand there, leaning against their trolley, and giggling at him while furiously typing on the mobile. While calmly waiting to make eye contact, he plans the social networking warfare he will evoke the second he sees a picture or tweet and vine of this. The girl finally looks up and her giggling falters but doesn't stop completely. His glare may be undercut by his hair slowly flopping onto his face and over his eyes, section by section, but she moves along all the same.

As he stands, Zayn realizes the one odd thing about this. There is no laughter. No “Mate, you should have seen your face! No worries, I got video!” Nothing. Just: silence and wheels scraping and distant chatter. Louis would never pull something like this and dart away to dither in anonymity. He does a slow circle and nearly slips again. Zayn thinks he hears his name and perks up.

“Zayn, where are-“ As he is stabilizing himself, someone slams into him and they both go to the floor, making small tidal waves in the sloppy mess.

The “Caution: Slippery When Wet” sign tips over.

Today is going to be long.

>>>>>

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in a triple chocolate chocolate-covered chocolate chip cookie today?” Niall asks from behind the bakery counter, only every other syllable managing to escape his crumb-filled mouth unscathed. He pats his belly for emphasis. “’Ey’re ‘ood!” He smiles and catches a piece that falls out of his mouth before popping it between his lips, where it belongs. 

“Oh, I couldn't possibly!” The woman giggles and eyes the display case longingly before sighing and staring intently at the green veg nearly filling her entire trolley. That’s just not right. Niall gets eating healthy, he’s sure to get all of his nutrients but everything in moderation and a little indulgence makes the world go round. He just shrugs and does the eyebrow-waggle thing that all girls love.

Another sigh escapes her lips as she glances back and forth between Niall and her shopping choices so far. The guilt of potential betrayal is heavy in the air and that just won’t do. Broccoli doesn't judge. Niall knows. Niall swallows and does a little hop in place now that he can fully breathe again. “Did I mention they’re chocolate?”

The woman smiles in a secretive way and leans in with an outstretched hand, like she’s waiting for permission. “You’re so bad.” She whispers like a conspiracy. Niall smirks and wraps one up for her, leaving the top undone, just in case she feels a bit peckish in the queue. It’s going to take her at least thirty minutes to get out of the store, the way this day is going.

He hands it over and assures her, “You won’t regret this.”

She turns it over in her hands and for a second, Niall thinks she’s going to devour it on the spot, but she frowns and looks back. “How much is it? How will I know how much to pay?”

Niall shakes his head and waves her off. “First one is always free.” He starts to sidle down the counter to check on the brownies. “Don’t worry, love, you’ll be back.” With another laugh, the woman walks off. Niall bounces from foot to foot and pats himself on the back. Another satisfied customer. He congratulates himself with a peanut butter brittle covered brownie.

All of the lads take shifts in the bakery at least one day a week now. The girl that used to work with Nick was seen fleeing last week, rumored to be crying about pink frosting and proper cursive, and hasn't returned. Until management can find someone else brave enough to take up the mantle as Nick’s co-head-vice bakery chef (CHVBC), everyone has to take one (or several) for the team.

It goes about as well as anyone can expect, with several untrained teenagers rotating about on the daily. Harry and Niall are the only ones with any experience or care for baking. Harry is the front runner, considering Niall’s interests only lie as far as eating and sharing the delicious treats with as many people as possible.

The oven dings loudly from the kitchen. That will be the butterscotch peanut butter cakes!

“Let them eat cake!” Niall cries out, only getting a few mildly bewildered glances in return. Niall starts humming and quickly wiping away all of the crumbs building up on the counter. The cakes are a bit finicky but well worth the effort and so deliciously rich. Like a hot bath or a good snog, they make his belly go warm with delight. He is certain that, at some point, someone besides one of the five of them has closed up the bakery one night and deduced, through inventory checking and basic vision confirmation, that they are coming up short on their sweets surplus. But no one has mentioned it yet and Niall takes that sweet, golden silence as free reign to make this the best Tesco bakery ever. Plus Christmas is around the corner; who couldn't use some extra holiday cheer? Maybe Niall should start sneaking some rum into the thicker chocolate-y sauces.

He hums as he moves to grab his pink oven mitts. That might be illegal, though. The oven mitts slip out of Niall’s hand and he bends over to retrieve them, stretching under the counter and trying not to think about when the last time it was actually cleaned. Liam would probably know about the legality of dosing people with teeny-tiny bits of alcohol. He should ask him.

Or make sure that he never finds out! Heavy, slopping thuds start echoing and they get louder within the bakery. More customers! Niall retrieves the mitts and tries to pat off all of the dust. “Probably one of those legal gray areas, where if it’s with good intentions, it’s okay,” he mutters to himself as he stands.

Niall drops the mitts again. Zayn and Harry are standing before him, slightly out of breath and sopping wet. They have a grayish tint to them, as if they’ve seen a ghost or gone through most of the washing off process but forgot they had to rinse off the dirt. Harry’s hair is starting to curl up in even tighter curls, determined to resist the water. Zayn’s is- well, Niall knows better than to comment or even think about Zayn’s hair.

Niall opens his arms wide. “Lads. I’m afraid the detergent is down aisle three but can I interest you in a coo-“

Zayn cuts him off. “Come on, Nialler. We have a slight issue.” Harry rolls his eyes like that is an understatement but takes a cookie all the same.

“There’s a good lad.” Niall pulls off his apron and rounds the counter. He thinks better of it and grabs several more to stick in his front pocket. One can never have enough sweets in any situation, especially a crisis.

As they jog away from the bakery, Niall belatedly hears a beep echoing in the distance. His cakes are going to burn. He’ll have to apologize to Nick and stay late to make more, most likely. Probably make a little extra to take home and test taste with the family. They can’t have the best Tesco bakery in all of Britain have its good name tarnished by some spotty cakes, now can they? Niall throws his head back and laughs, easily speeding past Harry and Zayn who are taking care to not slip with their wet shoes.

Today is going to be great!

>>>>>

It's a Wednesday and by all rights, it should be calm right now. There's a smattering of rain that keeps the afternoon from being anything untoward for England, such as nice or relaxing, God forbid. And, normally, no one but the errant stay-at-home mum or pajama-clad uni student would brave the weather for food. Normally, everyone in the market should be dozing off and pretending to look busy while their eyes are two-thirds closed.

But that all goes to Hell during the hols. There are no rules in holiday season. Christmas takes no prisoners in the retail industry. Sweet, goodie-yielding grandmas turn into vicious bargain-sniffing tyrants who will sooner impale you with their knitting needles than produce anything tasty or talk about the old days. Leave it to Tesco to have the busiest and most miserable work season right around the happiest time of the year – Louis’ birthday.

Louis rests his head on his knuckles and tries to maintain eye contact with the customer in front of him and act like he’s listening. With the way the large man is gesticulating, it might have actually been an interesting story. It almost makes Louis want to ask him to start from the beginning. Almost.

Because there are no interesting stories in the returns line. There are lies and threats and orders to talk to the manager. If Louis had a dime for every time he heard “What? Of course I never used it except for otherwise outlined in the manual,” or “I didn't even touch the thing, I just opened the package to make sure it was all there,” or “I know half of it is missing! That’s why I immediately brought it back to you for a full refund,” he wouldn't have to work as a piss poor customer service representative at a Tesco’s.

And Louis will be the first to admit he is piss poor at his job. He’s had this job all of six months and he’s already giving up on understanding the exhaustive regulations and policies that his place of employment has for returns. Mostly, he just tries his best to tune out the person entirely, deem whether this is something he would have to bother his manager about or not, and then plays God as he doles out refund blessings on those he finds morally sound or otherwise interesting. Or attractive. Fit people get top priority. He gets to sit there and stare at them without it being creepy and they get their money back. It’s a win/win situation. He’s gotten some dates out of it, too.

A distinct, gravelly voice immediately draws Louis’ attention to the loudspeaker right above him. “We need direction for an immediate clean up. I repeat: clean up, direction, immediate. Thank you for shopping at Tesco and have a wonderful day.” Louis rolled his eyes. He doesn't understand how Harry could go from panicking to a bright and sunny disposition so quickly with no cool down.

The thought of cleaning up some unnatural disaster caused by crowded, errant shoppers seemed awful and Louis does not envy anyone free enough to respond to that distress call. For once, Louis is glad to be at the front of the store dealing with this. He never gets dirt under his fingernails here.

Louis turns his attention back to Mr. Marathon in front of him. This guy is on the fence. He’s mostly a no just by the look of him and the state that the blender is in. ‘It was just a few strawberries, I swear. I always throw them in to sweeten my protein shake before my morning run because I’m training up for this triathlon up North in Manchester.’ Louis had managed to pick that much up before he put effort into the white noise generator that was his internal monologue and started seriously considering the pros and cons of skiving off his study group and rounding up the lads to smoke tonight.

Louis could write a manual on lying etiquette, probably should because none of the people he has come into contact with at this horrid place can lie worth a shit. The front page wouldn't be an acknowledgement or forward or plea to not steal the book. It’d be a simple statement for all to abide by: “Rule Number One for Successful Lying and General Bullshittery – Too many details will kill your credibility now or trip you up later.”

Something niggled about in the back of Louis’ mind about Harry’s message. He remembers one night not long after they all had gotten jobs at Tesco that they had stayed at Harry’s dad’s bungalow. They had stayed up late, swapping stories and secrets easily, fueled by nothing but the open friendship, trust, and affection they all seemed to innately have towards one another.

Harry had started giggling like a madman when they talked about who’s hot at work and the like. He had said “No, we need a secret thing- a code that only we know. So we can talk about people or around people or even…!” His eyes went wide with glee like he had just won the lottery and he buried his head in Louis’ shoulder. He rolled his head back and looked at each of the other boys before looking up at Louis and whispering “Over the intercom.” They all laughed and that was that: code names were doled out, key phrases determined, and certain panic words established.

All Louis could remember from that night was “Frankenstein lives” which meant drug test or suspicion of drug use or put down the damn pipe because the manager was coming and none of us can afford to be fired. Louis chewed on his nail and started trying to pay attention to the star athlete in front of him. Harry would fill him in later tonight. What’s the worst that could be happening?

Tiny alarm bells ring in Louis brain as he realized the word “manager” has been mentioned no less than three times in the past forty-five seconds. That’s a no-go. This guy needs to go down and never appear in Louis’ life again.

Louis straightens up, pulls out a pen from his pocket and plasters on his best winning smile. The customer heaves a sigh of relief and- this is what Louis lives for: giving them the smallest gleam of hope that they are an effectual conversationalist and persuasive and charming and they are going to get what they want, before –

“I am so sorry, Sir. It sounds like none of this was any fault of yours and I can tell you’re a real busy go-getter. I know I couldn't do a triathlon.” Cue: self-deprecating laughter. The man joins in. “I can absolutely understand your frustration and I really want to help you out here. No one, and I mean no one, loves a healthy and protein-enriched smoothie like yours truly.” Side-to-side glance and lean in, customers always copy that body language, and it promotes a feeling of exclusivity and camaraderie. “I agree with you.” Start writing down long, unbearable web address on an index card, half bent up so the customer can’t see it and has no idea what it could be but so desperately wants to know. Start slightly whispering. “There might be some legitimacy to your claim.” Not technically a lie. “Most customers don’t know this but my employer actually posts their entire three-part manual on the ins and outs of returns online. For anyone to read.” Louis pops out his eyes a little as he says this and throws another looks over his shoulder. Again, the man mirrors his movements, only now shocked at the information once he was informed via body language that this news is indeed shocking and important. Louis finishes writing and neatly folds the card into a little square. “Now, from what has been said here, I cannot issue a refund. And I technically cannot tell you anything about our policies or what criteria you did or did not meet based on what you said. I can repeat that from what you told me today, you are not eligible. And I can tell you that if you return to my line with the same item, I will have to go by my personal logs and give you the same answer because what you first told me must be upheld as fact.“ Louis tips his head and chuckles. “But I know that memory can be a funny thing and things might be misremembered.” The guy starts fervently nodding. “So if you go back and study up on section j6, e3.4, and z00.01 and find that you remember things a little differently, you could always come at a different time. To anyone else but me, you are a new customer with a new valid complaint and you can be properly served, as you rightly deserve.”

Louis stands back up and slowly slides over the paper into the man’s outstretched hand but pulls it back at the last second. “I never saw you, you never saw this, and this never happened, right?”

The man shakes his head again and it’s getting to seizure level vigor. Louis would be worried if he cared more. “Yes, of course!”

“Okay. I feel like I can trust you. Here you go.” Louis slides over the paper and smiles.

“Thank you, young man. You really helped me out. What’s your name?”

“Nick,” Louis replies as he tucks his pen back into his front pocket and adjusts his glasses. “Nick Grimshaw.”

Clutching tightly to the paper, the man slowly backs away and waves. “Thanks, Nick! You’re a lifesaver!”

Louis smiles and waves at him until the man disappearing from his line of sight before fixing his hair and yelling out “Next, please!” He’s piss poor at his job, but he’s a fucking artist with what he does. 

An older woman picks up her purse and hoists herself off the floor where she was sitting crisscross applesauce, waiting her turn. Louis swallows heavily and smiles. She will get a refund. Even Louis knows when to pick his battles.

The woman shrieks and swings her purse around behind her. “Wait your turn, boys. I've been here for forty-five minutes and I’m not going to wait another minute.” The purse swings again and someone yelps. “Lord help you if you get my hair wet!”

Louis darts out from behind the counter to edge around, not to intervene but to get a better look at whoever is incurring the wrath of this scary, assault-happy woman. 

“Shit.” Louis mutters. There is nothing worse than getting closer to a fight to watch for fun and realizing your friends are the idiots who are about to lose a fight. Three to one and they are still clearly outmatched. He’s fairly sure that he hears Niall whimper and offer her a cookie.

“Excuse me!” Louis steps into the fray with a raised hand like he has the answer. Truth be told, he’s making it up as he goes, but there’s nothing new about that. “What seems to be the problem?”

All eyes turn towards him and Harry immediately chimes in. “Did you not hear the intercom announcement? I was asking for some direction with clean up.” Harry could never be a spy, he’s a horrible liar and even worse at subtlety. He nods his head in a vague direction towards the left of the store with each word.

Louis opens his mouth but is cut off. “I don’t care what directions any of you need. I’ll straighten all of you out once I get my toaster refunded.” She pulls out a black, charred metallic object that can’t be younger than Harry.

Louis flinches at it but he locks eyes with Harry and makes a hasty decision. He turns and steps directly between the woman and the other boys, throwing on his best smile. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, but it seems that we’re having a bit of an electrical issue.”

Toasty Tara gasps in horror and Niall does as well. Louis whips his head back to glare at them for good measure and puts his hand out to soothe the air with a calming wave. “It’s nothing to worry about, really. Purely a computer problem and will not hinder your shopping experience in any way.”

Texas Toast Tina sticks the absolutely unreturnable item so close under Louis’ nose that he can smell the failed science experiments that must have transpired. “You not accepting this back quickly and giving me the money owed to me is ruining my shopping experience. Do you have a manag-“

Louis cuts her off; he’s not willing to go there right now. “Actually, I double as customer service but I am with the electrical team here so I do need to leave, but I think I have a solution that will help both of us out.” Louis starts pulling out the chain with the dangling closed sign to cut off the line as he speaks and avoids any eye contact with the six or seven people that had been waiting in line as well. “You can run on over to aisle four over there.” Louis leans over to point and clicks the chain behind them. “Say hi, Perrie!” Perrie turns and waves before drawing a line across her neck at Louis. “That’s her right there. She’s a sweetheart. She’ll set you up with your refund right away and I promise you, there will be no more further delays.” Now, Louis stares. This is the most important part. Whoever breaks eye contact first loses.

Trixie the Toaster Terrorizer looks down at her now very refundable item and hefts it up and down, glancing between it and Louis, as if she’s considering hitting Louis on the head with it and getting the money her way.

Please do it, Louis thinks. Please, just put me out of my misery so I don’t have to go through inevitably getting fired later tonight for whatever stunt it is that I’m helping pull. I’m all about self-destructive tendencies, you won’t win here.

Tiffany Toaster-Struddle must see the lack of fear in his eyes. She starts mumbling to herself and hefts the toaster into her bag before ambling off. Louis picks up only a few key words and phrased: beat, respect, full refund, and wastes of space. None of them include manager so he considers it a win.

Louis turns back to the boys and narrows his eyes. “What could possibly be so important?” Zayn, Niall and Harry start looking at each other like someone needs to draw the short stick to have to be the one to explain. Annoyance starts to change into excitement. “Oh, this is going to be good.” He shuffles forward to get details but there are still three or four people dutifully remaining in the now-defunct line for returns. Out of patience, Louis snaps his fingers and points towards Perrie. “Didn't you lot hear what I said to Miss Toa-, I mean the first young lady. Go see Perrie. She’ll set you all right. Now please evacuate, we fear that electric shocks might start coming through the ground!” That gets them moving and Louis turns back towards the boys.

Harry stumbles over his words, in a hurry to get everything out. “Louis, we don’t really have the time, but we need to get to aisle seven.”

Louis leans in and plucks at Harry’s damp shirt before letting it plop back into place. “Why are you two wet?” He points at Harry and Zayn. “And why are you eating cookies?”

“Why not?” Niall retorts.

“Fair point.”

Zayn interjects. “Better question – why aren’t you in aisle seven? I was sure you were involved in some way.”

Harry opens his mouth and then pauses before turning to Zayn. “Y’know, I did, too! When Nick told me, I asked him ‘what has Louis done now?’”

“I hate Nick.” Louis mutters pointlessly.

Niall mumbles something, too, and swallows.

“What?” The other three ask in unison.

Niall swallows again and clears his throat. “I said, me too, I was sure that it was Louis.”

“Fuck you lot, then. I am capable of being well-behaved when I choose to be.” Louis crosses his arms. “Also, I hate Nick. Still. Why isn’t he helping?”

“Louis!” Harry groans and starts trying to tug his arm.

“Okay, but,” Louis turns to Zayn and asks, “Where’s Liam?” Zayn shrugs and Louis can’t help but roll his eyes at that.

“What?” Zayn throws his arms out and then immediately crosses them again. “It’s not like I’m his ke-“

“Yes, you bloody are!” Louis rolls over Zayn’s denial, letting it crumble easily without care for who will get stuck with a splinter. Zayn sighs and shrugs his shoulders outwards like he wants to throw his hands out again or throw a punch, close call that.

Zayn snorts and shuffles his wet shoe against the floor before he starts again, “No, I’m really-“

Louis purses his lips, tilts his head, and levels his best ‘I’m having none of your shit today, Malik. There are errant toasters, soaking wet cashiers, and a missing soldier. We are in a GOD DAMN war zone!’ stare at him.

Zayn tucks his chin and shakes his head minutely. “Not?” He finishes with a raised inflection and looks over to Niall and Harry.

Harry shakes his head and chuckles while Niall jumps in easily. “You really are, mate. But it’s a good thing. Liam needs one or else he’d set the bar of customer service too high for the rest of us.”

Zayn starts and stalls twice before he can pull together a sentence. It’s hard to speak when your bullshit is stripped away so effortlessly; Louis can relate. “I- He-“ Zayn clears his throat. “In any case, no, I do not know where he is. I was over in produce doing clean up – who the fuck orchestrated that, by way? I hate doing clean up.”

“Not sure, but I’ll get my best men on it.” Niall throws in.

“Nick, probably.” Louis tosses in and Harry glares.

“He might have been doing stock but I haven’t seen him all day.” Zayn finishes.

Louis turns to Harry, “I take it he wasn't charming the old ladies up front with you?”

Harry shakes his head but then catches up. “Heeeeey, I don’t-“

“Moving on!” Louis rounds on Niall and pokes him in the chest. “He wasn’t hiding in the bakery or the break room?”

Niall shrugs and smiles easily, the only one who doesn’t find it necessary to deny a plain truth. “Nope, but I thought I saw him with a carton of something. He has to be doing stock.”

“Welllll-“ Louis drags out, trying to stand up on his tippy-toes and glances around, as if he can see much past the news racks.

Someone shrieks over close to the lady part goods aisle. “Unhand me, you sexual deviant!”

Louis claps his hands together and starts glowing. “Lads! I think we’ve found our fifth musketeer.” Louis kicks at Harry and Zayn’s shoes in succession and takes off. He calls over his shoulder, “Thanks, Perrie!”

Perrie turns towards him, holding the charred remains that once supposedly could toast bread and bread products. “Louis Tomlinson, I will find you!”

Today is going to be fun!

>>>>>

Aisle seven had become a war zone.

The entire aisle is covered in different cans of every imaginable type. Liam squats on the right side of the aisle, half hiding behind a trolley driven deep into pallets of canned goods. The crash had been hard enough to send cans flying into a sickly domino effect, causing an avalanche of liquid meals to fly everywhere. Standing a good twenty feet in front of Liam is the old woman with tightly wound white curls and half undone dressing gown sliding past one shoulder. She is perched upon a large pile of overturned cans set against the left side of the aisle with one leg stationed on the third rung of shelving, six feet above ground level, giving her the advantage of higher ground.

“Ma’am, if you’ll please just let me help you, we can-“ A can flies by his head, effectively putting a halt to all peaceful negotiations for the moment.

“No, you horrible creature!” She brandished a can of green beans wildly, with murderous intent in her eyes. “How dare you defile someone thirty years your senior!” Until that moment, Liam hadn't noticed anyone else had come to his aid. Then he heard a sound that he had been on the lookout for all day today. For once, he was eternally grateful to hear it. Louis’s quiet laugh echoed easily down the aisle and Liam glanced back to see all four of them crouching down and slowly advancing towards him. Another can came hurtling towards Liam and he curled himself behind the trolley rather than any attempts to deflect it. He had reinforcements, now he needed a new plan.

Harry shushed Louis but he only laughed again harder. Niall and Zayn joined in on the sh’ing competition. Liam rubbed his head and wondered how anyone thought that telling Louis to be quiet was still productive in any way.

Louis stage-whispered., “Come on, she might be thirty years Adolf Hitler’s senior, but-“ A can flies towards Louis and ricochets around the ground. “Oi!” Louis jumps away from the can as if the mixed veg might detonate and calls out. “A bit further away from anything vital if you don’t mind.”

Liam turns towards them for a moment, trusting that the attention was momentarily off of him and that the trolley would protect him otherwise. He gives a tight smile and a weak wave. “Hey, guys. How’s work?”

Louis is fully standing now, apparently operating on the lightning never strikes twice principle. “Oh, you know, great, Liam!” He waves around the entire aisle. “Zayn and Harry got soaked somehow, Niall is eating this place bankrupt, I might get fired for letting a woman return World War II-era aeroplane technology as a toaster, and you’re, apparently, trying your hand at publicly molesting murderous grandmas! It’s going real fucking well!” Three cans come at Louis in quick succession and he ducks under the shelves to take cover with the canned corn.

As soon as the barrage has stopped, he swings back out. “What the fuck is your problem, lady? I think you would appreciate a little love at your age. Our Liam is a right fit bloke.”  
The woman looks between them with confusion and throws another can. Her aim splits the difference between them and it ends up sliding harmlessly around the floor. She stands up taller on the shelf and cups her hands around her mouth. “Are you here to help, young man? You simply must arrest this cretin. He’s not fit for public consumption.”

Louis splutters “Help? The only thing we’re here to help do is to get you properly fucking sanctioned, you old bat.” He throws a can of peas and carrots back her way, missing by a mile.

Liam gasps. “Louis! No matter how off their rocker a person is, you can’t bludgeon them!” His words are punctuated by several cans smashing against his trolley barricade. “Come on! That wasn’t even me that said that. I’ve been nothing but nice to you-” A loud clang startles everyone and yellow starts oozing on the floor. Liam looks around his trolley to see a jumbo sized nacho cheese can laying there. “Shit,” he murmurs. “Heavy artillery.” 

Harry goes prone on the ground and starts to amass a canned artichoke hearts defense wall against oncoming attack. “Louis!” He hisses. “Maybe try being nice to her.”

Niall pipes up. “I could try. I’m great with the ladies.” Zayn rests most of his weight on Niall’s left shoulder and murmurs, “Let’s let Louis risk life and limb first. He has the least to live for.”

“I heard that,” Louis calls and kicks over a can of sweet potatoes towards them.

“Friendly fire!” Harry screeches and burrows closer into his half built wall.

Zayn pushes Niall to the ground and yanks him back closer to her. “Damn it, Niall. So help me, do not offer the lunatic a cookie!”

Liam takes a quick glance around and sniffs the air. He knows they have more pressing matters at hand but- “Is something burning?”

“Shit!” Niall calls out from behind him.

Liam dodges his head out to hopefully formulate a better plan of attack and sees the potential psyche ward escapee wind up to throw a can of spinach. He calls out and he’s not sure if he says “Louis” or “look out” but Louis seems to get message well enough. 

Louis turns just in time to see the can speeding towards him. The can clips him in the shoulder and he goes down hard, body molding to the piles of cans.

Logically, Liam knows that Louis isn’t dead or going to sustain anything debilitating but he hasn't moved and Liam is done being polite. He calls to Zayn and Niall, “Cover me. If she aims for him again, stop her.” He dodges out from the trolley and stumbles across to the left side of the aisle, dull thuds echo his footsteps. He can hear the boys returning fire but they’re broad shots just to startle her. Liam immediately feels awful for wishing just one would hit her.

As he nears the other side, a heavy can of lima beans catches on the toe of his shoe and he falls right into Louis. Both of them grunt at the impact. At least Louis is breathing. Louis rolls over and smiles at Liam. “Li, you came and rescued me.”

“Oh my God, you were faking it!” Louis breathing and lively enough to be witty makes it easier for Liam to roughly shove him over into the bottom row of the shelves and slide in next to him. “I thought you could have died or something and you’re just playing up the dramatics.”

Louis cradles his shoulder, the grin permanently stained on his face. “Less dramatics and more playing dead. That did hurt like a bitch and I don’t care to experience it again.” He starts to wiggle and push past cans to get towards aisle six. “But it was sweet of you to care.”

Liam grins and tries to think about something suave and interesting that someone from an action movie would say in this moment but draws a blank. He tends to do that when Louis is around.

“Niall, don’t!” They both look to their right only to see Niall darting out, disregarding Zayn’s call, wielding nothing but a handful of cookie-ish crumbs as he advances down the aisle.

“C’mon, lady. How about a nice cookie? Then we can all sit down and talk about this.”

An ear piercing shriek rings down the aisle as the steady drumming of cans being pelted starts to pick up speed. “Don’t come anywhere near me!”

Somehow, Niall is moving forward, still easily missing each can being thrown at him. “I bet all of this throwing is tiring you out. How about a nice triple chocolate, chocolate covered-“

Another loud clang interrupts Niall and reverberates loudly in Liam and Louis’ ears, making them jump and knock heads together. The noises sounds different from any other can-artillery to Liam’s ears. He glances up and sees the shelves above him shaking.

“Oh, dear.” Liam doesn't know how else to quite verbalize his worry and fears about what is about to happen.

Louis whips his head around. “What? What is it?”

He follows his gaze and before Liam can reply they watch the pieces holding each shelf together with the next start to snap off. The upper half of the left aisle seven has had all that she can take and from one end to the other, slowly, the bearings give way and the shelving cascades, along with hundreds of cans of meat, vegetables, and soup, into aisle six. The woman’s ungodly shrieking melds with the sound of metal rending and cans flying everywhere. The next aisle’s left shelving is simple sheeted metal with holes for hanging goods such as prophylactics and feminine care. It goes down much more easily.

Liam stops following the domino effect after that and turns to Louis. Belatedly, he realizes he doesn’t hear the woman screaming anymore and wonders if she’s dead. Liam and Louis stare at each other helplessly. “Shit,” they echo in unison.

Today has gone to Hell. 

xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Any mistakes? Tell me! Please! I find myself reading through fics and seeing little mistakes and thinking “Hm…I wonder if I should let them know about it?” I think: Oh, it’s been a while since they posted it OR Oh, they have so many reviews/views/favorites, they clearly know what they’re doing it OR Maybe they’ll think I’m a nitpicky little bitch and hate life and am trying to tear them down. So I don’t. But if you see anything wrong with this story, let me know. Because it’s my baby and I love it but I know I’m not a perfect writer. 
> 
> My tumblr: avaralicious.tumblr.com. I love new followers, I love messages, I love new friends. I love any kind of human contact whatsoever and will, most likely, adore you and tell you at least seventeen positive things about yourself, your blog, and/or your writing or creative efforts. <3
> 
> More to come...


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